


False Identities and Illegal Activities

by Tell_Me_Tales



Series: Travels and Journals [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Broken Families, Canon Divergence - A Tale of Two Stans, Crime, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Ford Stays in New Jersey, Gen, He Still Finds Weirdness to Study, Non-Linear Narrative, Stangst, Superheroes, Twin Troubles, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-05-20 07:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14890349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tell_Me_Tales/pseuds/Tell_Me_Tales
Summary: As it turns out, one did not have to travel very far from Glass Shard Beach to find adventure. After all, the city of Gotham could be found only a few dozen miles down the coastline.





	1. Six Years Gone

**Dimension 192**  
**Gotham, NJ**  
**April 19, 1996**

He was being followed. Even if he hadn't spent the last five years living in the crime capital of the United States, he still would have been able to tell that he was being tailed. Honestly, it was almost like the man wasn't trying. He kept enough distance and Ford hasn't been able to get an unimpeded view of the other man, but he was horrible at hiding his presence all the same. For starters, his clothes were of lesser quality than those of everyone else in this part of the city and it made him stick out like a sore thumb. (Or an extra finger, for that matter.)

Ford holds back an annoyed sigh. So, what was it to be this time? Was he about to be 'ambushed' by a would-be mugger, kidnapper, or columnist for some rag of a newspaper?

The man shifts the bag of his purchases into a more secure hold in his left arm and takes comfort in the weight of his concealed handgun. And there's always the experimental stun grenades stashed in his coat pocket that Fiddleford had passed him earlier. (Their first field test was technically supposed to be much later in the day; but he might feel better making sure they worked as intended, himself, rather than leaving the risk to Carla in what would likely be a far more dangerous situation.)

Ford ducks into a few likely seeming alleys on his way back to his car but the tactic fails to either lose his tail or draw about the inevitable confrontation. It isn't until he's in the middle of the parking garage, storing the bag of hardware in his car's trunk, that the other man chooses to finally 'reveal' himself.

"Hey, Sixer," the man calls from behind him and Ford freezes.

He knows that voice. Even with the distorting echo that is characteristic of closed-in, concrete structures and the intervening years, it would be impossible for Stanford not to recognize his own twin's voice.

Ford looks back over his shoulder and stares dumbfounded at the other man. He's fairly certain that his jaw is gaping. He nearly catches his own fingers as he closes the trunk and leans against the car for support. "Stanley?"

"Heh, yeah, uh..." Stan rubs the back of his neck nervously, "Long time, no see?"

"It's only been six years," Ford says. If he were less shocked, he would have delivered the words in a desert-dry, sarcastic tone. As it is, they only ring hollow and dead as they bounce off the hard concrete surrounding them.

Stanley winces. He opens his mouth to say... something, but nothing comes out before his brother decides against it.

"What are you _doing_ here?" Ford can't help asking.

"I, um, I know you wanted space, from me," Stan says, awkward and fumbling, "and I figured Gotham is probably big enough for both of us if that's still true, but it --" He scowls at the ground and hunches his shoulders as he crosses his arms. "Like I said: it's been a long time. I miss my twin."

Ford bites the inside of his cheek as he considers how to respond to the confession. "That's it? That's the whole reason you're here?" he asks.

Stanley turns the scowl on him. "Look, Gotham seemed as good a place to start over as any." And Ford will admit, if only to himself, that he's curious about that though Stan doesn't elaborate on _why_ he needs to 'start over,' as he puts it. "I'm not leaving the city even if you still don't want anything to do with me, but I'm not here ride your coattails or do something that's gonna screw you over again. I learned my lesson the hard way. I just want to reconnect. That's all."

Stan's glare would seem defiant to a stranger and Ford is sure it's meant to appear that way, but he knows his twin. Stan is afraid. That's the same look he used to stare down bullies with when they'd been growing up. It's disorienting and a bit nauseating to realize it's being directed at him, now.

Ford sighs and readjusts his glasses absently. "Have you eaten? It's about time for lunch."

"No," Stan answers, cautious hope creeping onto his face, "You really mean it?"

Technically speaking, he hasn't offered anything yet, but... Yes, he means it. He's not sure that trying to reconnect with Stan will end well but he's willing to try. It occurs to him that he's missed his twin, too, and more than he wants to acknowledge.

"Get in the car, Stan," Ford says as he unlocks the vehicle, "I know a place not too far from here."

* * *

The restaurant he takes Stan to isn't quite as high-class as the establishments he's gotten used to since moving to Gotham but that's for the better. This way, the only stares should be the normal ones (related to twins and polydactyls) and not the more troublesome kind (out-of-place, easy targets). Plus, if an argument breaks out between them, and there is a greater than zero percent chance of just that happening, he won't have to avoid any of his prefered dining options.

"So, how have you been?" Stan asks, his tone awkward and almost hesitant.

"Ma hasn't relayed everything already?" Ford counters only to immediately regret it, "Fine. Good. I've been good." He pauses a moment and then, manner every bit as awkward as his brother, Ford simply asks, "And you?"

"I, uh, better now," Stan says, staring at the drink in his hand.

"Better than... ?" Ford trails off meaningfully.

His twin scowls and snipes back, "Ma hasn't relayed everything?"

Ford winces. He'd deserved that one. "She probably tried to," he admits, "I haven't been very good at listening."

Stan sighs. "Yeah, okay, I get that. We left things pretty crummy between us." The man scratches the back of his neck. "I don't think I ever said it, but you know I'm sorry for bustin' your project, right? I didn't mean to ruin your big chance at that fancy school."

Ford's hands tighten around his own glass. "You really think _that's_ what bothered me the most?" he demands. The man takes a gulp of his drink -- water, he still needs to drive home, but he suddenly wishes it was something else entirely -- and then very deliberately lowers it back to the table at a velocity that _won't_ cause it to shatter upon impact. "I got over that. It didn't happen quickly, but I forgave you for being selfish, and scared, and stupid. And _don't_ try to tell me that wasn't exactly what you were when you sabotaged my shot at getting into WCT. You were a teenager who was upset and did something dumb as a result. I'm still not happy about it -- I never will be. -- but I'm over it.

"What I have a hard time getting over was that you ran away. And then you came back. And then you did it again. And again. And _again_." Ford notices the waitress hesitate on her way to their table before turning around to service a different set of diners. Smart woman. "I got tired of not knowing if you were still going to be there in the morning. I got tired of never knowing when you would be coming back, or if you were going to come back at all. I got tired of not knowing where you were, if you had everything you needed, if you were still in one piece. Or if you were dead in some back alley and I'd just never know what happened to you.

"That's what I have a hard time forgiving."

"O-oh," Stanley breathes when it's clear that Ford has no intention of saying anything more. The man bites his lip before waving a waitress over. "We'll both have the --" he glances quickly at the menu, "-- tuna melt. Tuna melts, good for you, Fordy?"

Stanford nods without looking up, fingers tracing aimless patterns along the sides of his glass and disturbing the condensation gathered there.

"Two tuna melts," the waitress confirms, "And for the sides?"

"Just bring us whatever, doll face," Stan says. He waits until the woman leaves before he continues. "Shit, Ford, I didn't know," he mutters, "I thought you didn't _want_ me around."

Stanford gives a bitter laugh. "By the end, I didn't." He tries to suppress the instant guilt when he catches Stanley's flinch in his periphery view. He stares resolutely out the window. He doesn't want to have to see Stan's face as he says, "It was easier to have you gone and pretend I didn't care if you ever came back than it was to have you home and spend every second waiting for you to decide to leave again."

"It --" Stan clears his throat, "It wasn't exactly easy to _be_ home, after, ya know? You were angry with me. Pops was always watching me like a hawk, just waiting for me to screw up again. And Ma was so stressed out trying to keep us all from starting another screaming match. None of that was good for the younger twins, either. I figured if I could just stay gone instead of giving in to the temptation to go home with my tail between my legs, it would be better for everyone. I'm still surprised that Pops always let me back through the door."

Ford frowns and glances at his twin. "Of course he did. He worried whenever you left. We all did."

Stanley snorts. "Yeah, right. Pull the other one."

"I've never understood why you're so bad at reading him," he says, studying the other man, "not when you're both so similar."

The other man stiffens. "Can we shelve this for later?" he asks, "Or maybe never?"

Pushing will only result in that fight Ford is hoping to avoid and whatever issues Stan and their father have with each other is between them. "Fine," Ford decides after a moment of stretching silence, "Will you at least say goodbye before you take off again?"

"I'll call before you have a chance to start worrying too much," Stanley hedges, "Like I do for Ma."

That's not a 'yes' but it's better than he's had in the past. Ford sighs, "Better than nothing."

The waitress returns with their food and a refill for their drinks.

"Thank you," Ford murmurs as a plate is placed in front of him. Stan doesn't offer any similar sentiments and in fact seems rather impatient for the woman to leave again. He tries not to let Stanley's ingrateful behavior annoy him too greatly. He fails.

"How about we talk about something less depressing?" Stan says before stuffing a handful of fries in his mouth and hastily swallowing them, "Hey, you ever seen the Bat of Gotham?"

"A few times, yes," Ford answers. Nearly every night for the past three years, actually.

"Really?" Stan asks, "You're serious? I figure the Bat was an urban legend! Wait, this isn't like the time you swear you saw the Jersey Devil, is it?"

"I'm telling you, I _saw_ it!" Stanford insists. (And if Stanley had been paying attention that long ago day instead of goofing off, he would have seen the state's most famous cryptid, too.) "But no, I've seen the Bat in much better visibility conditions and I assure you, the Bat is real. And there are plenty more Gothamites that can attest to that fact, especially in the poorer neighborhoods. I even have it on good authority that the GCPD has a folder on her vigilante activities this thick." Ford holds his thumb and index finger wide to approximate the size of the folder in question.

Stan raises his eyebrows and lowers his sandwich. "'Her?' The Bat is a _woman_?" the other man asks before a grin spreads across his face, "How good a look did you get, Sixer? Is she hot?"

Ford levels an unimpressed look at his twin. "Yes, and way out of your league," he deadpans, "fangs or no." The first part is true. The second part is borrowed from those ridiculous vampire rumors that seem as undying as their subject material.

"Alright, alright. _Yeesh_ ," Stanley grumbles, "You coulda just said you didn't get that good a look."

Ford rolls his eyes and eats his sandwich.

Stan manages to go a full minute-and-a-half of nothing but quiet munching before trying another conversation starter. "Hey," he says between bites, "Ma mentioned you work for McCorkle, now. Said ya work directly for her, even!"

"That's... accurate," Ford allows warily, "Why are we talking about my job, though?"

"Well, I just," the other man fumbles with his words, "It's impressive is all. McCorkle only hires the best that high up and the pay must be good. I'm, I'm glad you're doing well. That I didn't, didn't 'ruin your entire future' or anything."

Ford frown grows progressively as Stan rambles, first in confusion and then in irritation. "It's hardly the sort of job I'd have gotten if I'd gone to WCT," he points out, "and my securing a job after you broke my project hardly excuses your actions."

"C'mon, Ford! I'm trying here!" Stan snaps, "You can't tell me that working for McCorkle isn't a good job!"

"I never said it wasn't. But that doesn't change --" Ford shakes his head and forces himself to reevaluate what he's saying, "Look, I told you I'm more or less over it. You're the one who brought it up again. Let it be."

Stanley scowls and looks away. "Yeah," he agrees with poor grace, "Okay."

They finish the rest of their meal in silence.

"I've got the bill covered," Stanford reminds his brother when the other begins to reluctantly reach for the slip of paper in the center of the table.

Stan's face tightens and he glares at Ford. "I can pay my own part of it," he insists, "I don't want to be a --"

Ford snatches up the bill during Stan's distraction. "I'm the one who invited you to lunch and picked the restaurant," he dismisses, "It's mine to pay."

"Next time," Stan insists as he catches Ford's arm, "I get the bill next time."

Ford nods slowly. He's rarely seen his twin look so serious about something. "Alright, lunch is on you next time."

Stan relaxes and then offers a small smile, "Next time." He releases his arm. "Uh, when would be a good time for that, anyway?"

He shrugs, "I have weekends off, usually. I'll give you my number before I drop you off and we can arrange something later." Ford stands and gestures with the bill in hand, "I'm going to pay this at the counter." Stan doesn't make any objections and Ford is soon standing in front of a cash register and across from the waitress that has been serving him and his brother.

"I hope you enjoyed your meal," she says as she runs the card he'd handed her.

"Yes, I'm sorry about my brother's behavior," he says.

"It's no problem, sir," she replies, flashing him a smile, "We're here to serve."

"Hm," he hums a mild acknowledgement as he accepts his credit card back and offers her a business card in return, "If you're interested in picking up some extra work, I'm always looking for competent waitstaff. It isn't regular, and it's often short notice, but it pays well."

"McCorkle..." she murmurs as she looks over the card, "I wondered if you might be him." She glances pointedly at his hands but doesn't say anything more. It isn't as if anything more needs to be said, after all.

"Yes, I'm 'him,'" he states, unsure if he should be more amused or annoyed by the notoriety he's unintentionally gained inside of Gotham. Either way, he's long since given up on hiding his hands after he's sure the other person already knows who he is. "Give me a call once you decide."

"You got it! Thanks!"

Stanley is waiting for him just outside the door with a lit cigarette and a wide grin. Ford's nose wrinkles at the smell.

"Did you seriously just give that girl your _card_?" Stan teases, "That is so much smoother than you used to be in high school! I'm so proud of you, Sixer! I think I might actually be tearing up a little." He throws an arm around Ford and jostles his shoulder.

Ford waves a hand in front of his own face. "Are you sure the tears aren't from the smoke?" he questions, "I don't suppose you have any plans to quit?"

"Nah, but enough about my bad habits!" Stan insists, though he does flick the fag away in the direction of a sewer grate, "When did you become such a ladies man?"

"'Ladies ma--'" Ford blinks, "Is that what you think that was?"

"Well, yeah," Stan says in clear puzzlement, "What else would it have been?"

"Work, Stan. I was offering her a job, not a date." He peels away from his twin to unlock his car.

"Wait, her?" Stanley asks as he climbs into the passenger seat, "Why?"

"Because she did her job well," he answers, "With all the people constantly moving in and out of Gotham for one reason or another, it's surprisingly difficult to keep enough waitstaff on call for last minute galas or..." Stanley is staring at him oddly. "What?"

"What does _any of that_ have to do with you?" Stan asks, completely bewildered.

Ford hesitates. "Stan," he starts, "what did Ma tell you I do for a living?"

"Said you work directly for McCorkle," he answers promptly, "That means you head up one of their tech departments or something, right?"

"That's all she said?" Ford shakes his head in disbelief and starts the car, "I don't work for McCorkle _Enterprises_ and I certainly don't lead any of the company's R and D departments." He's visited a few times, made a suggestion or two for which he'd been well compensated, and he may or may not be responsible for getting _Fiddleford's_ foot in the door for employment inside said department. But he's never actually held a job there.

"But --"

"I work for _Carla_ , personally, at McCorkle Manor," he says, "I'm the _butler_ , Stan."

Stanley stares at him slack-jawed for a moment, and then, "Oh my god, Ford! I'm sorry! I really did ruin your --"

Ford snorts in amusement. He can't help it. "Don't be sorry," he cuts in, "It's a surprisingly cushy job that I am being grossly overpaid to do and the benefits of which are absolutely ridiculous, besides. There's even a clause in my contract specifically about covering the costs for up to five courses at GCU per semester. I'm currently working on my third doctorate, in chemistry this time."

"Let me get this straight," Stan says slowly, "You found a job, one you apparently like, and you're still going to school."

"Yes."

"Ford, Buddy, I am never going to understand why you would want to do that."

"Because I enjoy learning?" Stanford offers, "Honestly, I think I'd be happy to remain a part of academia, in some form or other, for the rest of my life. I might even try taking on a teaching position at some point."

He smiles at the thought of one day becoming a Gotham City University professor. It's a pleasing idea, but one for later. Right now he's more than content to remain in his current job and continue attending GCU as a student. That's just as well, really. Even the self-sorted collection of intellectually-minded individuals typically found on college campuses have trouble taking professors seriously in the classroom if they appear to be _too_ young, and he's only twenty-three -- nearly twenty-four -- after all. There will be plenty of time for this particular dream in the future.

"Pretty sure most people go to college so they can get a good job," Stanley huffs in exasperation, "Not get a good job so they can go to college."

Ford shrugs and says, "I'm not most people."


	2. B is for Butler

**Gotham, NJ**  
**April 19, 1996**

Only a couple of hours have passed since he dropped his brother off a few streets away from the parking garage before the phone begins ringing. (He'd offered to take the other man back to where he was staying, but Stan obviously hadn't wanted to say where that was and Ford hadn't pushed.) The butler spares the kitchen a once over to make sure everything is as it should be and nothing is in imminent danger of burning before picking up.

"You've reached McCorkle Manor. This is Stanford Pines speaking," he says more out of habit than anything, "May I ask who's calling?" (He's expecting Stan to call but there's always a chance it could be someone else. He generally fields at least five calls of his own regarding the management of the estate on any given day, not to mention any calls that come in for Carla. Regardless, it's better to have confirmation than to make assumptions.)

"Yeesh," Stanley's voice gripes, "Ya sound like a stiff, Ford."

Stanford rolls his eyes. "Hello, Stanley," he greets.

"Hi, Ford," his twin returns, "So, how did you get turned into a stuffy butler, anyway?"

"It wasn't exactly planned," he admits, "I just sort of fell into it."

"I smell a story."

"I suppose. It's a bit long to get into over the phone, though."

"Is there a short version?" Stan asks.

"Well, I don't know how much Ma told you, but I went to a," Ford clears his throat pointedly and says, " _affordable_ college after graduating high school. It was a poor fit and only lasted for a year."

 **Philadelphia, PA**  
**May 24, 1991**

Stanford snaps the suitcase closed and runs a hand through his hair, his nails scraping lightly over his scalp. He stares in the vague direction of his small dorm room's only window but his thoughts are miles away from the limited view offered beyond the pane. He'll be leaving for home tomorrow and, though he doesn't particularly like Backupsmore or Philly, he isn't looking forward to returning to Glass Shard Beach.

"What's got ya twisted 'round this time?"

The young man startles and glances behind himself at the door.

His roommate smothers a chuckle behind his hand. "Sorry there, Stanford," Fiddleford says, "Didn't mean to make ya jump, but ya got a thousand yard stare going. So, what's on yer mind?"

"I'm not coming back next year," Ford blurts, only realizing how much he truly means it as he says the words aloud for the first time.

Fiddleford straightens at the announcement, a new alertness entering his posture. "You're not?" he asks with a confused frown, "Why not? Don't tell me you _actually_ managed to overload yourself with courses and failed 'em all."

Ford waves the accusation away. "Of course not," he dismisses, "That's part of the problem! I'm not being challenged at all. I'm wasting my time here."

"Well, ya've only been here the one year," the other student tries to reason, "Might be next year will have something a little more your speed."

Stanford levels a flat look at his friend. "Do you really believe that?"

Fiddleford hesitates. "Well, no, not really," he admits, "Cards on the table, I reckon yer probably too smart for this place all together. But I figured ya must be here 'cause the price was right or ya woulda gone somewheres else for college from the beginning. It's more or less the same boat I find myself in."

Ford scowls and looks back out the window. He has to remind himself that getting angry about past injustices and taking his frustrations over them out on his roommate wouldn't be productive in the least and could, in fact, cost him a friend. "I might have to drop to a part-time college schedule, or else find a job first and save up in order go to a better university. Either way, I'm not returning to Backupsmore next fall."

"Well, looks like ya got yer mind made up. I hope you find what it is yer lookin' for, Stanford."

"Thanks. Though, I am sorry my decision means you'll be back on the roster for a new roommate again," he apologizes awkwardly.

Fiddleford freezes for a moment and then groans loudly. "Consarnit! I hadn't even thought about that! Back to weedin' through all those lily-livered pansies that start screamin' like a cat caught in a tornado over every little explosion." The mechanic glares half-heartedly at him and chides, "You're a cruel man to leave me like this, Stanford Pines!"

Stanford tries to smother his amusement. He's going to miss the man and all his strange Southern sayings. "In their defense, the dorm _is_ quite small and the shrapnel flies everywhere."

"Ah well, it was nice having someone that didn't go crying to momma this past year, at least," Fiddleford laments and pats his soon-to-be-ex-roommate on the shoulder. The wiry man suddenly brightens and says, "Hey, grab yer coat! I'm taking you out for dinner to celebrate you moving on to greener pastures!"

"My which you mean each of us will be paying our own way because we're both broke," Ford translates even as he smiles and shrugs on his jacket as directed.

"You know it!" Fiddleford exclaims, "It's why we're here to start with, after all. Come on, we can bandy around a few ideas as to how ya might be able to swing attending a real college. Might be we can even hit on a way to get us _both_ out of this dump! Wouldn't that be something?"

"It would indeed."

 **Gotham, NJ**  
**April 19, 1996**

"I moved to Gotham the following summer, admittedly without much of a plan in place beyond 'find work and attend a worthwhile university.' I probably should have put more forethought into my decision but it worked out for me well enough in the end. The housekeeper for the manor at the time, Misses Flores, ran an ad in the local paper."

**August 05, 1991**

Stanford intently scans the newspaper in his hands and ignores the half-unpacked shoebox of an apartment around him. He needs a job. Preferably one that will pay enough to cover his living expenses and have enough left over to first start making headway on that loan he took from his father and then to begin saving up for the next school year's tuition. He might well take on two -- possibly _three_ \-- jobs until he begins attending one of Gotham's universities. Even one of the local community colleges would be vastly superior to Backupsmore, but he's hoping he'll be able to scrape together the funds to afford admittance into one of the better universities. He should probably check on the accessibility of scholarships, as well.

(Those rumors spread by the WCT admissions board after the debacle last year won't help his odds, but they shouldn't be so near the forefront of everyone in academia's minds anymore like they once were. And his final exam grades for his last year of high school will forever be shamefully low, but being able to show a return to straight A's -- at an admittedly subpar college -- might help diminish that scar in his scholastic record. Perhaps there is a way he could test into a scholarship program without needing to reference any of his past schooling at all.)

A list in the middle of the classifieds eventually catches his eye.

  * _Silver_
  * _Oil Paintings_
  * _Antique Furniture_
  * _Antique and Modern Firearms_
  * _Classic and Modern Automobiles_
  * _Grounds and Gardens_



It's a rather eclectic list. Of greater interest is the fact that he has a fair amount of knowledge of most of the things listed thanks to the informal education he'd received working in his father's pawnshop. Ford backs up to read the posting from the beginning.

_Help wanted to clean manor home, this Friday at 7 AM. Requirements include basic cleaning skills, punctuality, good work ethic, and discretion. Opportunities of further work available for those competent in the cleaning, maintenance, or restoration of any of the following:_

  * _Silver_
  * _Oil Paintings_
  * _Antique Furniture_
  * _Antique and Modern Firearms_
  * _Classic and Modern Automobiles_
  * _Grounds and Gardens_



_If interested, please call 228-626 for details._

Ford considers the ad in front of him. Everyone knows that McCorkle Enterprises pays even its lowest level employees better than most other employers do for equivalent jobs. It's how the company continually absorbs the best talent the area has to offer as well as what the company's young owner and CEO has coined as their 'quietest form of philanthropy.' The question now is how much of that is good PR and how much is honest conviction. Would working at McCorkle _Manor_ pay as comparatively well as working at McCorkle _Enterprises_ would? Is there a possibility that doing a good job cleaning the manor could somehow open the door to landing a good job in either the research or tech departments of the company?

There's one way to find out. Ford reaches for the phone and makes the call.

**April 19, 1996**

"Working in the backroom of the shop for Dad paid off in a big way. I didn't have to be trained in how to properly treat most of the manor's furniture and paraphernalia. It turned a one-time job into a semi-regular boost to my income. I never expected it to become more than that but when Misses Flores retired she recommended me to replace her, and that's more or less it."

It had been more than just that, of course. His skills and knowledge had made him someone useful to keep in mind for the odd job or as part of a cleaning crew, but that hadn't been what had held Misses Flores' attention. The woman would have been able to train anyone up to replace her if taking care of the _manor_ was actually the entirety of the job. (Technically speaking, it was. However, with the sort of after-hours philanthropy that Carla had invested herself in, she needed reliable backup. Regardless of what his boss thought, she'd be guaranteed to land herself in more trouble than she could get out of on her own if she didn't have someone helping in the background.)

"Huh." Stanley mulls over what he's been told. Inevitably, he asks, "So, when are you going to invite me over?"

"Never," Ford says flatly.

"Ah, c'mon, Sixer! I wanna see how crazy rich people live!" his twin cajoles, "You could sneak me in sometime while everyone else is gone! No one needs to know you gave me a tour!"

Ford remains unmoved. "I want to keep this job, Stan. I'm not letting your sticky fingers anywhere near the manor."

A pause and then, "When you say 'sticky fingers,' which way do you mean --"

"Both ways," Stanford cuts in.

Stan huffs over the line, causing a short crackle. "Now that's just insulting, Sixer."

He's not going to apologize. Last he checked, his twin has a history of being both a petty thief and a slob. If Stanley wants better he'll have to earn it.

"I need to get dinner out of the oven soon," Ford states briskly, "Do you want to meet up this weekend?"

"Yeah," Stan doesn't hesitate to agree. Ford supposes that means the other man isn't overly insulted despite what he claims. "Where and when?"

"I could pick you up wherever you like," Ford offers again.

"Nah, ya don't need to do that. I can make my own way," Stan insists.

Ford sighs and reminds himself firmly that it isn't worth an argument -- even if he is worried about the sort of place Stan could be staying in that he doesn't want Ford to see. "Alright," he relents. "Late Sunday morning would be good for me. Where do you want to meet? You're the one paying," the man reminds his twin, "It's only fair you choose."

There's another minute or two spent bickering with Stan but he manages to get off the phone in time to prevent anything from burning and get supper on the table before Carla arrives home. Ford wonders for a moment why that feels like such a large accomplishment. He realizes soon enough that it's because he's waiting for the other shoe to drop and has been since laying eyes on Stan for the first time in six years, earlier in the day.

Ford tries to shake off the feeling as paranoia. He is only partially successful.


	3. Gotham's Leading Lady

**Gotham, NJ**  
**April 19, 1996**

Batlady stares intently down at the harbor and one ship in particular near the east end of the docks. If her information was correct, it's full of illegal drugs -- cocaine, mostly. "It's almost show time," she remarks from her perch high on a building just outside of the harbor, "Any helpful insights, Prophet?"

The comm in her ear crackles softly before the man's voice comes through, "Other than don't get shot and that I wish you'd try using the new suit?"

He's been testy since she'd returned from work earlier in the day. She hadn't asked about it at the time but she's beginning to wonder if maybe she should. Regardless, now isn't the time.

"You worry too much," she dismisses as she tucks her binoculars away and begins her descent to street level, "and your high-tech, modern-day knight's armor isn't stealthy enough."

"The Mark II is practically a personalized tank!" Prophet insists, "It doesn't need to be sneaky! It just needs to keep you safe and in one piece and it _would_."

"I do my best work from the shadows," the vigilante replies as she skulks closer to her target, "quiet and unseen."

"You already did your information gathering on previous nights and you're going into a situation you know is dangerous. I'm not saying you need to retire your current batsuit altogether, but now would have been an excellent time to make use of the Mark II."

Stubborn man. Hasn't she proven by now that she knows what she's doing?

"And if the boat sank while I was wearing your fancy suit of armor?" Batlady can't resist asking.

Prophet's voice is distinctly unamused, "It has a built-in rebreather and I made sure the rockets work when submerged. If both of those fail, there's an emergency jettison protocol should the suit become a detriment to your safety."

Batlady considers this information briefly. She's gotten to the point where she won't be able to hide her approach any further. "Alright, Prophet, you win. I'll try the iron-batsuit on the next bust."

"It's not actually made of iron," he corrects, "It's a --"

"I'm going in," she says, cutting through her partner's chatter.

"Acknowledged." The comm goes silent.

Batlady makes a dash for her goal and vaults from the edge of the dock onto the boat's deck. She immediately presses her back against the ship's superstructure and waits.

No alarm is raised.

Time to get to work.

She finds two guards above deck, one half-asleep in the wheelhouse and one on patrol. Batlady takes the first goon down the old-fashioned way before Prophet reminds her of the miniature stun grenades she's supposed to be testing tonight. (They work well. She'll have to remember to use them in the future, where appropriate, and also to send her regards to Fiddleford for his work in helping create them.) She leaves the two gang members unconscious behind her as she heads below deck, both restrained by bat-shaped handcuffs. (They are utterly ridiculous, but that's probably half the reason Prophet makes them that way to begin with. They amuse her greatly.)

Batlady is on the second sub-level when one of the smugglers manages to find her before she finds him. His last few footfalls before he lunges are louder than their predecessors and catch the vigilante's attention. She only has enough time to twist to the side as a knife glances off the light armor of her suit. She doesn't recover fast enough to avoid the next slash and the goon gets lucky. The blade finds one of the small gaps between the ceramic plates that protect her left side.

Batlady screams.

"Carla!" Prophet yells in her ear.

The goon is still unbalanced from his attack and completely open. Batlady grabs the man's right wrist and wrenches it into an unnatural angle to break his hold on the knife. (And possibly just break his wrist, period.) She proceeds to use her opponent's own momentum to swing him headfirst into the steel wall of the corridor. He's out cold by the time he collapses onto the floor.

"I'm fine," she grits out lowly as she pulls the blade from her side and ignores the obviousness of her lie. The wound isn't deep. The knife widens significantly away from its blade, clearly made for chopping and not stabbing, and it had gotten pinched by the armor plates well before it could cause any real harm. She'll need stitches but she isn't in danger of bleeding out or organ damage. Prophet will fret until he has a chance to personally patch up the knife wound but she'll survive until she can make it back to the cave. As an afterthought, she reminds, "No names over the comms."

(She spares a short moment to be thankful that Carla McCorkle's DNA isn't in any criminal database. She may not have to worry about bleeding out, but she's definitely leaving behind enough for the GCPD forensics team to collect a sample. Not that it's the first time she's left more of herself behind than she'd like.)

Batlady drops the bloodied weapon and pulls out another pair of handcuffs from her utility belt. She may or may not tighten them just a smidge more than she should.

She finally uncovers the smuggler's hold: an entire, hidden, third sub-level. There are likely other stashes aboard the ship, but she has no doubt that this is the main smuggling compartment. It's dark and cramped, only about two-thirds as tall as the other levels are.

Batlady withdraws a compact flashlight from her belt to inspect the area and then her breath catches in her throat. There are plenty of crates packed into the compartment that could easily be the illicit drugs she came here to find. They completely fail to capture her attention, her gaze now locked on something else entirely.

"Prophet," she whispers in dread, "are you seeing this?"

Her partner's voice is grim as he answers, "Yes."

"God," the vigilante breathes, "How did I miss this?"

Batlady stares past the bars of a cage and several different pairs of eyes stare back, silent and terrified. The flashlight's beam reveals a collection of ill-kempt, dirty bodies as it swings first to the left and then to the right. There are a few women, a handful of little boys, but most are young girls. Her stomach rolls and she has to force away the nausea that threatens to overwhelm her.

"I've alerted the police," Prophet announces, cutting off the spiral of disgust and guilt she unwittingly slipped into, "Anonymous tip. The nearest cruiser should be there in approximately eleven minutes."

"I can't just leave them! I --"

"You've done your part. Let the other systems do theirs," the words are cut and dry but the tone is gentle, "Give the police what they need to search the ship and trust them to take care of the victims. Come home."

Breathe in, breathe out, focus on the mission.

Batlady pops open the nearest crate, and then another, and then another, and then yet another, leaving plenty of incriminating evidence in plain view. As if people in a cage weren't enough. She spares them one last glance before turning away. Prophet is right. She isn't equipped to handle traumatized victims. It's work best left to the police and then social services.

She has to restrain herself from kicking the concussed smuggler-turned-trafficker in the corridor as she walks by him. The additional violence won't help anything, no matter if the man deserves that and worse for his actions. She can only hope he and all of his comrades -- and she's sure there are more of them than the three currently on board -- will be spending a lot of time behind their own sets of bars.

When she makes it back to the deck, Batlady deploys a projector to mark the ship for the police. (It's another special of Prophet's and Fiddleford's, taking advantage of the Gotham smog to produce a calling card of light and shadow in the sky that's visible for miles despite the numerous skyscrapers in the city. The battery life doesn't last long, of course, but the little devices have proven invaluable all the same.)

(Technically speaking, Batlady has no affiliation with the GCPD or any other police department. Technically speaking, Batlady is a vigilante and thus a criminal that the GCPD is charged with apprehending. Technically speaking, that means anywhere she's suspected to be or have been recently becomes an area of 'exigent circumstance' and thus open to a search and plain view doctrine. Back in the real world, Batlady is convinced being classified as a wanted criminal has been one of the greatest boons she could have ever received to her effort to clean up Gotham's seedy underbelly.)

The vigilante hides in a nearby alley choked with debris as the dispatched police cruiser arrives at the harbor. She doesn't leave until Prophet confirms that the responding police officers have found the captives held below deck and radioed for backup.


	4. Care and Concern

**April 20, 1996**

Stanford has been reduced to anxious pacing before Gotham's resident vigilante makes it back to the cave. The medbay is prepared, a redesign of the suit's armor plating is ready for approval, the criminals and victims are both being processed by the city's police, and the night's activities have been logged in the computer. He's worked his way through all of the cave's more readily available diversions. There's simply nothing worthwhile left for him to do but wait. Unfortunately, being idle only serves to further undo his fraying nerves and knowing that his worry is unnecessary does nothing to help him quash it. Carla was injured tonight and it never fails to remind him just how dangerous the game she's playing is.

Unable to find another task to distract himself with, his mind begins to instead supply him with a multitude of worst-case scenarios. While he rationalizes that most of them are far from realistic outcomes for the situation at hand, too many hold a possibility of becoming more than fretful imaginings on some future night.

Ford tries not to think about it but he knows a time may come when Carla fails to make it home altogether.

The Batmobile (The whole 'Bat'-thing is a ridiculous naming scheme, of course, but Carla has a horrible enough sense of humor to rival his twin and Ford doesn't mind playing along.) rolls to a stop in its designated parking space. Ford waits impatiently for the vigilante to exit the vehicle.

"Hi, Prophet," Batlady greets him with a sheepish grin as she climbs out of the car. Her movements have only a slight hitch that gives away the injury. If he didn't know to look for it he would be none the wiser.

"Medbay," he says bluntly, "Now."

The woman sighs. "Worrywart," she grumbles but otherwise acquiesces and slinks away toward the medical bed.

Ford follows after his boss. Under his breath, he insists, "Someone needs to worry about your health and safety."

If Carla hears his ill-tempered remark she gives no outward indication.

**June 29, 1992**

He's been working on and off for Misses Flores for nearly a year. Today, the elderly housekeeper had called him in to do some restoration work on a few oil paintings. Most of the paintings are from an older portion of the mansion that hasn't been updated in years. The lighting in those rooms had left something to be desired, so he'd set up shop on the dining room's overly large table, instead.

He's interrupted about two hours into his task by an unexpected voice. "Hello."

Ford startles and looks up from the canvas he's in the middle of cleaning. He had thought Misses Flores would be the only other person currently in the manor, but there Carla McCorkle stands in the doorway separating the kitchen from the dining room. He's seen the lady of the house on maybe three separate occasions and he's never actually spoken with her, so he is baffled as to why he is being addressed by her now.

"You must be Stanford," she says.

"Yes, Miss," he replies, offering an uncertain, deferential nod.

"You can call me Carla," the woman says brightly, setting the plate she'd been holding down on the table a safe distance from all the open containers he has scattered across its surface.

That request falls outside the guidelines Misses Flores had relayed on day one. (And Stanford has heard her deliver that same speech several times to new hires, so he has all but memorized it verbatim. He's fairly certain she makes it a point to personally hand down those instructions to everyone that comes into the manor's employ.) Considering the elderly woman's insistence on proper behavior and protocol, it seems unwise to deviate now. Not that he needs to. There is a part of the well-worn spiel that covers exactly this.

"Miss Carla."

His new companion huffs and picks up her fork.

"I see Dalia's already sunk her claws in," she notes.

Stanford allows himself a tiny smirk over what he can only assume is a long-standing argument between the housekeeper and her once-ward. He turns his attention back to the painting in front of him. "Yes, Miss Carla," he replies, tone light and perhaps just a little teasing.

There's a soft giggle from further down the table. The conversation falls into a natural lull as Ford works and Carla eats her meal.

"She's planning on retiring soon, you know," the younger woman confides after a few minutes, "She has you on her list of possible replacements."

"She does?" He had already known. Misses Flores had told him as much weeks ago. Still, Carla seems to be looking for conversation. He can do basic small talk, at least.

"Mm," the woman hums a soft affirmative. "It's a short list."

Ford glances up at her tone and finds her absently poking at the remains of her food with her fork. Tentatively, he offers, "I imagine that Misses Flores has a good idea of what she is looking for."

"She usually does," Carla confirms, "I'm afraid she's taken it upon herself to see to it that I have a competent babysitter before leaving. Dalia doesn't seem to think I'm any more capable of looking after myself now than when I was a little girl. She's gone so far as to warn me she'll be putting off her retirement until she finds someone that meets all of her requirements, but she seems to be optimistic about you." She spares him a small smile. "I suppose that means we'll be seeing more of each other."

He hasn't thought much about that part of the situation, though it seems glaringly obvious now. Up until this point, it had merely been the offer of more stable work with higher pay, a promotion of sorts. None of the job's requirements were particularly daunting. There was a lot to keep track of, yes, but nothing he didn't think he could handle. He hadn't taken into account how Misses Flores was more than just the housekeeper at McCorkle Manor. After all, whether either woman was willing to openly admitted as much, it was obvious that she was something of a mother figure to Carla.

The job being offered to him suddenly seems far more complicated than it had only a few seconds ago.

He tries desperately to form an appropriate response but ultimately fails to find any words.

The silence stretches.

"Well, it was nice to meet you, Stanford," Carla finally says when it becomes clear that it will be up to her to salvage what remains of the conversation. The woman flinches as she rises from her chair and places a hand over her ribs.

"Are you alright?" he asks in concern, tools abandoned without thought as he rounds the table. He aborts an attempt to support the woman halfway through the motion. He knows Carla in only the most distant of ways. Would his assistance even be welcome? He awkwardly lowers his arms back to his sides.

"Fine. Fine," Carla waves him off as she straightens, "Just sore. It's why I didn't go into the office today."

Stanford fidgets indecisively. "Are you sure?" he presses.

Carla opens her mouth, closes it, and glances over her shoulder. "Don't tell Dalia," she instructs, a note of conspiracy and mischief in her voice.

Hesitantly, he nods in acceptance.

The next thing he knows, Carla has untied her expensive robe and is pulling up the shirt she is wearing underneath it. Ford snaps his neck to the side and looks up at the ceiling, cheeks flaming.

Carla's resulting laugh only causes his flush to deepen further.

"Relax!" the woman insists, "I'm not flashing you!"

Ford chances a hasty glance at the female and it soon transforms into an undisguised gape. Carla holds her shirt up just enough to reveal that the right side of her ribs is covered by one large, unsightly bruise.

"What happened?" he whispers, unable to look away and vaguely horrified by the sight.

"I went downtown and tried my hand at some of the late night diversions that part of the city has to offer," Carla tells him, "Dalia doesn't approve, of course."

"You went slumming?" he questions, "What caused the bruising? Did you get caught in a bar fight?"

She shrugs, an action that is soon followed by another flinch, and allows the shirt's hemline to fall back into its proper place. "An underground cage fight, actually," Carla corrects before adding in a smug chirp, "I won, too."

Ford shakes his head in disbelief. "I can see why Misses Flores would be less than supportive of such activities," he states blandly.

"Dalia has made her concerns heard," Carla admits, "loudly and often." The woman sighs. "Speaking of my overbearing housekeeper, I should get back to bed before she finds me wandering the manor rather than resting as she ordered."

"That would be the wise thing to do," Stanford acknowledges.

"Goodbye, Stanford. Thank you for talking with me."

He offers another deferential nod. "Miss Carla."

**April 20, 1996**

Carla huffs and hops onto the cot. Her fingers find and release the hidden latches holding the armor together before peeling away the section that covers her left side from ribs to hip. A large patch of her skin has been painted red thanks to the thin layer of blood that had gotten trapped in place by the suit. Thankfully, the wound itself is relatively minor.

Ford sets himself to work on cleaning Carla's latest injury. The woman hisses softly at the sting of the antiseptic but offers no other objections.

"How are the victims?" she asks.

Stanford doesn't look away from his task. "They were taken to a hospital for examinations and treatment. Police and social services are coordinating on identifying them and arranging temporary housing." He makes the first stitch without warning. The woman flinches and grunts but remains still for the remainder of the procedure. "The FBI will probably become involved before everything is said and done."

"And the perpetrators?"

"In jail and awaiting their day in court," he answers, "From the sound of it, the DA's office already has enough evidence to put them away for a long time."

"Good," Batlady growls.

Ford hums in agreement. "I'm finished," he announces, disposing of used supplies and packing away the rest.

Carla sighs in relief and glances down at the neat row of stitches. "Thank you, Ford. That will be all for tonight."

"Of course." He hesitates for a short moment but then adds, "You should retire before it grows much later, Carla. You need rest and the victims are in good hands."

Carla spares him a half-hearted smile. "I promise I'll make my way to bed after I take a shower if you'll stop worrying. Goodnight, Ford."

That's the best he'll get from her and he knows it. "Goodnight, Carla."

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [DarrowWyrlde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarrowWyrlde/profile) for volunteering their time, creativity, and beta skills to help make this story the best it can be.


End file.
